She sits on the edge of the bed and hands me a tissue.
"Do you love him?" she asks, quietly.
The answer is immediate. Physical. "Yes."
She nods, like that settles something. "Then why did you leave?"
I stare at the wall.
Because I lost Henry.
Because we fought, and he made me feel expendable.
Because every old instinct screamed run.
"I thought I was protecting myself," I say finally.
After she leaves, I lie there with that sentence echoing through me, heavy and accurate and cruel.
The house goes quiet. Everyone asleep but me. I check my phone even though I know there will be nothing. No messages. No missed calls. No signs that I matter anywhere but here, in this borrowed bed, in this paused life.
I think about Arthur alone in that big house, probably convincing himself that this is for the best. That removing emotion restores order. That love is a liability he just mitigated. I think about Henry waking up tomorrow and realizing I'm not coming back.
My chest tightens until breathing feels optional.
This is it, I realize.
This is the moment where the story either ends or becomes something else.
And the worst part—the part that finally breaks me—is the certainty settling into my bones: I didn't leave because I stopped loving him. I left because I was afraid I was never going to be good enough for him.
And now I don't know how to go back.
